


Scripts

by chesnut



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Autism, Autism Spectrum, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesnut/pseuds/chesnut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If plays are near dependent on scripts, then why does improv feel like an impossible necessity?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scripts

Your name is Problem Sleuth, and you’re the leader of Team Sleuth, the number one detective agency in Midnight City, both in rank and in quantity. As leader, you are recognized as the smooth talker, the charismatic, the cordial connoisseur. Perhaps you are sometimes. Or usually. You’ve been known to pry confessions out of suspects with nothing more than your alluring, gentle voice, to win the affections of men and women alike with your charm. Maybe you are some kind of socializing master? Or maybe you’re just skilled at writing scripts.

A director who is an actor in a play that is not his own. A play that involves everyone, the rest of his team, the mobsters who spread chaos about the city, and the city itself, and all of its people and noises and smells and lights. None of it is scripted. Every car honk, every person talking on their phone, every gunshot, it’s all improv. Nothing is predictable. All these actors act of their own accord with no regard to structure or volume or whether or not the nonexistent audience can follow what’s going on. If you, one of the infinite actors, can’t understand this play, what makes you think some strange onlooker could? That the other actors themselves can?

But they manage. And you pretend to manage. It’s structured at first. Things are orderly in your own home, everything as it should be, the lights, the sounds, the scents. It’s all scripted. It all makes sense. As soon as you step outside, though, that’s when you’re bombarded by the unexpected.

Scripts run through your mind, though you know others don’t need them or think you should need them. You use them to greet your coworkers, to order your coffee, to ask for some paper. It works decently, and you manage to slip by without anyone noticing your reliance on your scripts. 

Until you don’t have one.

An unanticipated question comes up, perhaps someone asking for directions or what you’re doing tomorrow evening. Your mind and your mouth stop working together, your throat tightens, and your lips lock up. You stare, hand tapping your leg ceaselessly, as you try to process their words and deliver some kind of response. Most of the time you shrug, make a simple gesture of your head, or sputter out an “I don’t know”. It’s hard. It’s almost frightening to be caught in a silence. They expect words to flow out smoothly, as they do on the job. But they don’t. They come out jagged and forced, your voice barely even your own. Or maybe that’s your real voice. Or maybe your real voice is nothing at all. Sometimes, you like that thought. Love it, even. Your voice sounding like nothing. Your tone is empty. Your inflections are nonexistent. Your accent is silence. It’s comfortable, if you’re being honest with yourself.

The play is beautiful. You can’t deny that, no matter how painful the noises and lights and smells are, and no matter how impossible it is to perform without a script. You love the play. You love your fellow actors and their odd voices and facial expressions and hand gestures and postures. Their improv, however, is an enigma, a complete mystery to you and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to sleuth that case. It’s all right, though. Whether your words flow out smoothly, tumble like rocks down a cliffside, or are completely cut off, you’re a part of this play. Your character matters, and your silence contributes as much as every yell, whisper, and voice combined.


End file.
